


California is somewhere else

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, Confessions, F/M, Kisses, Mad Science Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know about the job offer," he said abruptly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	California is somewhere else

**Author's Note:**

> This is shippyness nonsense. I blame the jet lag.

He watched as Molly glanced at her phone and realized the time. Yawning, she craned her neck back, the ligaments cracking gently. “Should be going. Getting late. It _is_ late.”

She removed her lab goggles and shrugged into her coat. Sherlock watched her retrieve her shoulder bag and wind her scarf around her neck. He felt...odd. Had felt odd for some time now. Exactly six days, seven hours and forty-ish minutes. Since Mike Stamford spoke to him. About...things. He moved to the window, considering the street. It gnawed at him, this knowing. Further still, how to broach it.

“Thanks for having me, Sherlock,” Molly said, overly bright. “I had fun.”

“I know about the job offer,” he said out of nowhere, spinning on his heel to look at her.

Her mouth opened. She looked off to one side, cheek twitching up uncertainly. She hesitated. “I wasn’t hiding it, exactly,” she said after a long silence. “I mean, I’m not surprised you found out.”

“You weren’t going to tell me?” he asked.

She looked up, quickly, then down again. “Hadn’t made up my mind. Not completely. Pretty sure I’m going to take it, but I was waiting to hear from the board to see if they could match the offer. Doubt they will. Cutbacks.”

Sherlock leaned back against the desk. His hands gripped at the wood, tracing the sharp, sudden edge. “So. You’re leaving.”

Molly opened her mouth to say something. She closed it. “Probably,” she said, relenting.

“Stanford Med. Not bad.”

She twisted her hands. “It’s, um, senior research position in the neurology lab. My specialization, that is, um, my research is focused on–”

“Neuropathology,” Sherlock answered. “I know. I’ve read it.”

She quirked her head, scrunched her nose. “You have?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, recoiling a bit, offended on her behalf. “I read everything you publish. Your work is impressive, Molly,” he said, uncertain as to why she seemed so uncomprehending of her own accomplishment. “Why else would you be my pathologist?”

Something in her expression changed. Something...sharpened? Brightened? The corner of her mouth ticked. “And here I thought it had to do with the fact that I’m always game to nick you body parts. Let you get away with your more unorthodox experiments.”

“‘Unorthodox,’” he scoffed.

“Lots of riding crops in peer-reviewed trials, are there?” she replied, raising one brow.

 _Point_. “Well, that would just be rude to admit to it _out loud_ ,” Sherlock answered. He pushed off the desk and shoved his hands in his pockets as he stepped forward, hiding his chagrin.

Molly’s cheeks dimpled prettily. “Never stopped you before.”

“First time for everything, I suppose,” he said, looking down at her. She dared to hold his eyes. A frisson, some intangible, wordless _thing_ passed between them. Something he could not observe or measure or even describe, something he did not at all understand but nevertheless knew to be significant.

Molly swallowed and looked down again, releasing him from the agony of it. “I’m told they’re doing interesting work in neuroplasticity. The campus is beautiful. The labs are everything I could ever want.”

“Sounds like an amazing opportunity,” he admitted. As, in fact, it did. He could not fault her that.

“It is.”

“Plus, all that sunshine.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, just as he had that day, more than a year before, in a shadowy stairwell in Knightsbridge. “I hope you’ll be happy there, Molly. You’ve earned it.”

She looked up, down, up once more. “Sherlock? Can you think of any reasons why I should stay?”

Her eyes were large in the low light. Huge pools, and welcoming. He felt warm. Heated. Afflicted by a sudden rush of blood to the head. Words caught on his tongue, ill-formed and insubstantial. He stumbled, averting his gaze. “No, that wouldn’t–I mean,” he tried in vain.

Molly shook her head. “S’okay. I know.”

Did she?

“Nice to hear, though. I didn’t know you read my work.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You do.”

She looked up, and that thing–the strange, jerking, _twisting_ thing–took hold again.

“I should go–”

“Molly?”

She stopped.

“What,” he hesitated again. “If I had said yes?” he asked. “What–hypothetically–might you have done?” His voice rose oddly, betraying his unease.

“Oh.” Molly shrugged. There was no guile in her face. No agenda. She was only ever Molly, at her most honest. “Suppose I might have kissed you.”

His eyes widened. She turned once more, her cheeks pink, her hands shaky.

No. _No!_

Her foot was half in the hall when he forced himself to call her name.

“Yes?” She stepped sideways, neither forward nor back. They stood on even ground.

He moved closer. “Can you think of a reason why you shouldn’t go?”

_Be brave. Be brave, Molly Hooper._

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

The distance disappeared. Their eyes held for an infinite second before their lips met. Her mouth on his sent a fluttery, breath-stealing shiver through him. It was good. Very, _very_ good.

“Just so we’re clear,” Molly said, breaking away and breathing fast. “I meant the promotion.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smirk. “I’m teasing you, Sherlock.”

“Oh.”

“It’s you,” she said, resting her head against his. “Idiot.”

“I cannot promise you perfection, Molly,” he said. He traced the curve of her jawbone, admiring the softness of her skin.

“Who says I want it?” She kissed his cheek, her mouth a sweet curve of happiness. Had she always had such long lashes? He could not recall, nor explain why he had not noticed before. “I fell in love with a pretend sociopath with a penchant for puzzles and narcotics.”

She kissed his neck.

“Your best friend is a repressive thrill seeker married to an ex-assassin.”

She kissed his jawline.

“Your landlady ran a drug cartel.”

She kissed chin.

“Your brother likes to escalate international incidents as stress relief.”

“Figure that makes you the sanest of us all,” he said, becoming very impatient. Pushing her coat to the floor (why on earth did she wear so many layers!?), he bent down to kiss her again, harder. He nipped at her lips and walked her backwards until her back was pressed against the wall, and, bending, grabbed her by the waist to lift her up. Molly approved; she wrapped her legs around his hips and gave a little moan of pleasure.

“Or madder than you lot put together,” Molly said between messy, lingering kisses. She was breathless and beaming. He felt the same.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said tugging at her jumper.

“You move quickly,” she said in an amused tone. She let out an endearingly high-pitched squeak as he leaned into her and slid his cold hands under her jumper, trying to tug it off.

“I’d say our progress has been rather _glacial_ , wouldn’t you?” he smiled against her warm, inviting mouth. She hummed a pleased sound in response. “Also, I feel obliged to put things on balance between us.”

She tipped her head back, giving him a puzzled little look. “Hmm?”

“You’ve given me a lot of body parts over the years,” he explained, pulling her away from the wall and carrying her to his bedroom. “Only seems fair to return the favor.”

Molly grinned, wicked. “Ah.” Her tongue flicked out against his lips. “That sounds nice. But, actually, I think you’re about to get a few more. Don’t think I mind you owing me...” She sank her hands into his hair.

“Oh, Molly,” he said. “You do know the way to my heart.”

“Didn’t even have to crack your ribs to get at it,” she replied, mouth ghosting brilliantly against his neck. “Your lucky day.”

They fell back together against the bed. “Just so we’re clear,” he asked, repeating her words, his lips trailing a sinful line from her belly to her breasts. “You’re not going to California, are you?”

“Not going,” Molly gasped. “Oh, fuck!”

“Mmm. Yes. That. Lots. Lots and lots of that," he said. "Will make sure Barts' meets your offer. Stupid they haven't promoted you already." 

“You really mean it,” she said, looking up as he leaned over her, expression equal parts astonished and skeptical. “You really don’t want me to go?" A line crinkled in her brow. Her thumb pressed against her clavicle. He began a mental catalog of all the places he wanted to kiss her.

“Obviously I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock said in a huff. “Especially not somewhere as annoying as California. It’s–” he grasped for an appropriate disharmonious phrase, but then Molly was undoing buttons and touching him and her eyes shone with mirth and joy and lust and in the end he settled for as apt and quick a phrase as he could manage: “Somewhere _else_.”

And with that, he kissed her again and showed her exactly where he wanted her to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the old Joan Didion quote "The truth is...California is somewhere else."


End file.
